As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. Nice goings on. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. "Oh! they are—are they?" muttered Jack, triumphantly; "that'll do. Those awful chairs!" After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself. She entered and approached the bunk. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. The terrific mental tension of the past few months —that had held his bodily nourishment in a kind of strangulation—became as a dream; and now his vitals responded rapidly to food and air. “Why come after me after all these years, Sebastianus? Haven’t you found any sycophants to convert, any nubile young nymphets to bring into the cannibal flock?” “Why should I do that if there is still the chance of you?” “What if there could be no chance of me? How do you know you can have me?” “I see your game.
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